


Heat Wave

by smallhorizons



Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel's Car, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff, Human Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an alternative season 9 where Cas has come to live in the Bunker, and he and Dean have fallen into a relationship. </p><p>It's hot as hell outside, but Cas has put off washing the Continental long enough. Dean helps. Sort of.</p><p>In which Dean tries to help Cas wash his car and it devolves into a full-out water fight, instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Wave

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before we got the (quite frankly glorious) scene of Dean washing the Impala wearing jean cut-offs in season 11, so unfortunately his jean booty shorts are not present in this fic. Hopefully Cas' ridiculous outfit makes up for it.
> 
> Finally getting around to crossposting this from tumblr, where I did this as part of a dialogue prompt challenge for the phrase, "Last time I'm asking you for a favor."
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr: I'm osirisjones. :)

Dean grunts as he heaves the box off the shelf, feeling his back twinge as he lifts. He and Cas had fallen asleep on the couch last night, right in the middle of watching a documentary about bees (yes, _bees_ ), and Dean had woken up with a stiff back from the shitty springs, and Cas practically drooling on his chest. He’s getting too old to fall asleep on couches, especially when they’ve got a friggin’ memory foam mattress just down the hall.

“Careful,” Sam warns as Dean carries the box out of the storage area, heading towards the library. “I’m pretty sure this is the statue that the records refer to, and I dunno what’ll happen if it breaks, considering how nasty the curse is.”

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying a damn box,” Dean says. “Clear the table.” He points his chin at the cluttered table, strewn with old Men of Letters’ records on all the cursed shit they’ve been storing for hundreds of years. Their organization system is a mess, and Sam has been trying to match each artifact to their descriptions. He’s been at it for a week, and he’s barely gotten through a tenth of what the Men of Letters have hanging out in their basements.

“Dean?” Cas calls from down the hall. There’s the sound of a door swinging shut, then the soft padding of bare feet on the floor as Cas approaches.

“In the library, babe,” Dean calls, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. He flushes when Sam smirks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Shut up,” he mutters.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied it with your face,” Dean says, and he actually risks balancing on one leg to kick at Sam’s shin.

“Ow! Jeez, Dean,” Sam complains. He pulls the files together into a pile, clearing a space just large enough for Dean to slide the box onto the table. He grimaces as he lets it go, rolling his shoulders—it wasn’t too heavy, but his damn back, man. Shit. He really is getting old.

“Oh, hello, Sam,” Cas says from behind them. Dean turns to smile at Cas and almost chokes on his greeting.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, trying and failing not to laugh. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Cas scowls at him, but that just adds to the hilarity of the look: a pair of ridiculous orange-and-purple floral swim trunks and a white tank top with hipster-looking cat faces plastered all over. “I’m going to wash my car,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Looks like you’re going to have a blast,” Sam says, and he somehow even manages to keep a straight face. “Just missing a pair of ray-bands, then you’ll be perfect.”

Cas still isn’t too good at picking up on nuances in conversation, but even he recognizes that Sam is making fun of him. The look he gives Sam is so sour Dean can practically feel Sam wilting.

Dean swallows his snicker and reaches out for Cas, drawing him in by the wrist. “Aw, Cas,” he says, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. “Sam’s just a giant dick. We all know that.”

“You’re a dick, too,” Cas grumbles, but he relaxes into Dean’s side and lets him slide an arm around his waist. “I came in to ask if you wanted to help.”

Dean actually, for real, almost says no. Because it’s hot as sin outside, and he doesn’t really want to be sweating over Cas’ giant Continental for probably over an hour because, hell, he _knows_ that once he starts washing the car he won’t be able to stop until he’s waxed and buffed every damn surface. And even though he kind of really hates that Sam has roped him into helping him with all this nerd stuff, he’s pretty sure he can sneak away while Sam is geeking out over this particular old-as-dirt statue and catch the Star Trek marathon he noticed was playing earlier. But then he thinks about Cas with his white tank top wet and plastered to his chest. He thinks about Cas turning pink under the sun, the determined look he gets when he throws himself into something. He thinks about convincing Cas to take his shirt off, crowding him against the newly-gleaming car and maybe kissing him until their lips hurt.

“Sure,” Dean says. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Cas smiles at him and kisses his jaw, right below his ear. In the background, Sam mimes gagging. Dean holds up his middle finger.

“I’ll meet you outside?” Cas asks. “I just need to pull the car out.” Dean nods and then lets Cas go with another kiss—hey, they’ve been putting off this _thing_ between them for years, okay? He’s got years of keeping his distance to make up for.

Also: the look Cas gets on his face, the pleased, shy smile and the pink tinge to his ears whenever Dean is spontaneously, casually affectionate … it makes Dean’s heart rise up in his throat, choke him with how much he fucking loves this asshole. How much he loves this person, his angel.

“I can’t believe I have to put up with this,” Sam sighs as Cas exits the room. “It was bad enough when I had to deal with the ridiculous pining, but now that you’re actually _together_ —”

“Shut your bitch mouth,” Dean snaps.

“It’s artery-clogging,” Sam says, very seriously. “It’s sickening. _Oh, Cas, of course I’ll help you wash your car_ ,” he simpers. “You are so whipped. It’s adorable.” He’s grinning. Dean shoves him into the table.

Dean’s brother is an asshole. He’s lucky Dean loves him.

* * *

Dean meets Cas in front of the bunker after putting on an old, grease-stained pair of jeans and a thin gray t-shirt he usually wears when he’s fixing up the Impala’s engine. Cas smiles at him when he comes up out of the bunker, the heat rolling over him like a wave.

“Your aversion to wearing shorts is ridiculous, just so you know,” Cas says. He’s dipping a sponge into a bucket filled with soapy water, slender wrists disappearing into the foam.

“I wear shorts when I absolutely need to,” Dean says. He eyes the hose, curled like a snake just behind Cas. He’s kind of tempted to just douse his head, soak his shirt so that the heat is drawn away from his skin. It must be almost a hundred degrees out.

The foam clings to Cas’ hands when he draws the sponge out of the bucket, squeezing it to get rid of the excess water. “We’re in the middle of a heat wave,” he points out. “You’re going to be too hot.”

Dean shrugs and meanders over, holding out his hand to take the sponge Cas gives him. “We can take a cool shower after,” he says, grinning wolfishly when Cas looks at him sideways, a tiny smirk playing on his lips.

“I look forward to it,” Cas says. He doesn’t even say it like it’s an innuendo, like he’s playing up the sex factor. He just sounds sincere. “You take the left side, I’ll take the right?”

“You’re the boss,” Dean says, and he leans in to kiss the corner of Cas’ mouth before heading around to the other side of the Continental. This won’t be so bad. With the both of them working, the Continental shouldn’t take long to clean, and Dean’s got the promise of a shower with Castiel waiting for him afterwards.

Five minutes later, he’s dying.

“Holy _shit_ , it’s hot,” Dean groans, wiping his wet hand across his brow. The coolness of the water offers momentary relief, but it evaporates in what seems like half a second, and Dean just feels worse than before. “Why did you decide to do this _today_?”

“Because it’s going to be even hotter the rest of the week, and I wanted to get this done,” Cas says. He’s stoic about it, but Dean can tell he’s feeling the heat, too: his hair is sticking to his forehead in damp little curls, and there’s a tightness to his mouth that tells Dean he’s just as uncomfortable as Dean is.

Dean plucks his shirt away from his chest and fans it, trying to get a breeze going on his sweat-slick stomach. He looks at the hose again. “Ah, fuck it,” he says. “Cas, pass me the hose.”

Cas gives him a curious look, one eyebrow rising, but he gets the hose anyway and holds it out to Dean across the hood of the car. Dean takes it from him and twists the nozzle, puts it on a setting that’s not gonna tear his skin off. Then he adopts a more wide-legged stance, leans over, puts the nozzle to the top of his head, and presses the lever.

And, holy shit, _that is fucking cold_.

Dean doesn’t shriek. Just lets out a little yelp and almost jumps a foot in the air, splutters incoherently when he accidentally sprays himself in the face and gets a mouth full of water. He practically throws the hose away from himself in disgust, then just stands there limply with ice-cold water soaking into the neckline of his shirt and streaming down between his shoulder blades. He shakes himself almost violently, droplets of water splattering against the car. The water is already warming up, but the shock of the cold of it still has Dean’s heart beating a quick tempo in his chest.

Cas is just. Looking at him. A tiny smile building on his face.

“What the fuck are you smiling at,” Dean says. He wipes at his face, blows his nose to get the water out of his nostrils.

Cas giggles. Actually giggles. And then Dean looks at him, gapes a little bit because he has _never_ heard Cas make that noise before. “You think this is funny?” Dean asks, half incredulous, because he literally just fucking sprayed himself in the face with a hose and Cas is just standing there with a hand over his mouth, giggling—and Cas fucking _loses_ it, laughter bursting out of him like his body can’t contain it. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, and he tries to quiet himself but little hiccups of laughter keep bubbling up, so he’s clearly not _that_ sorry.

Dean narrows his eyes. And looks down at the hose. And, very slowly, leans down to pick it up.

“Wait,” Cas gasps between peals of laughter, “Don’t you _dare_ —”

The shriek Cas lets out when Dean nails him right in the center of his chest with a jet of frigid water almost makes up for Cas laughing at him.

“Revenge’s a bitch, ain’t it,” Dean says smugly, smirking. “You know what they say—it’s a dish best served _cold_.”

Cas stares at him, dripping, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing right now. Dean winks at him. And is totally not prepared for Cas to draw his arm back and then throw his sponge as hard as he can, right in Dean’s face.

Dean actually stumbles backwards, sputtering, spitting out the taste of soap in his mouth. He can feel the foam dripping down the side of his face where the sponge collided, a slow, meandering path down his cheeks and along his jaw.

“What was that you were saying about revenge?” Cas says, voice sweet as honey, and Dean growls, “Oh, that is _it_ ,” and he pauses only long enough to scoop down and grab the sponge and hose before he rushes towards Cas with a war-cry.

It’s incredibly satisfying to see Cas’ eyes widen with what looks like a brief flash of terror. Dean raises the hose, and Cas ducks just in time for the jet of water to arc over his head, arms coming up to cover his head.  But Dean just follows his descent with the hose and catches Cas square in the back of the head as Cas is turning his face away. Cas squawks and overbalances, falling forward onto his hands. He’s off-balance for only a moment, though, before he pushes himself up and feints to the side so the sponge Dean throws at him sails harmlessly past him. He lunges at Dean, keeping himself low, and slams into Dean’s midsection, the momentary pain of it making Dean grunt. The force of it makes Dean stumble backwards until he collides with the Continental, but he’s grinning even though his back is twinging again because Cas forgot about the hose. And even though the angle is awkward, it’s not too much trouble for Dean to stick the nozzle down the back of Cas’ shirt and turn on the water.

Cas shouts, “ _Fuck_ ,” and Dean almost doubles over in hysterics because he’s _never_ going to get tired of Cas cursing, but Cas is grabbing at his arms, trying to wrench the hose from his grip, hands too slippery with soap to get a good grip. Dean twists away, holding the hose high out of Cas’ reach, grateful for the scant two inches between them, laughing breathlessly, taunts, “Come and get it, big boy.”

Cas growls, actually growls, and grabs the back of Dean’s shirt because he’s a filthy fuckin’ cheater. He practically climbs onto Dean, clinging with elbows and knees as he reaches for the hose, slick fingers scrabbling uselessly at Dean’s wrist. “Dude!” Dean protests, tries to shake Cas off. But Cas just laughs in his ear and pushes himself that last inch up and snatches the hose from Dean’s hand.

But the shifting weight sends Dean stumbling forward, losing his balance, and he has a moment to think, _Aw, shit_ , before he hits the ground on knees and palms, knee flaring with pain, Cas’ weight draped heavily across his shoulders, and then Dean’s elbows give out and he finds himself sprawled in the dust, gasping for air, with Cas shaking in silent laughter on top of him.

“You are such an asshole,” Dean gasps, and with a grunt he heaves himself up, grinning at the sound Cas makes when he’s dumped unceremoniously to the side. “Drowned rat is a good look on you,” Dean says, snickering, because Cas’ hair is plastered to his head and his shirt and shorts are soaked through, clinging to every curve of muscle.

Cas smirks. And reaches behind him. And picks up the bucket of water.

“If you even _think_ about it—” Dean starts to threaten, struggling to get to his feet, but he’s on his back and his knee is throbbing, and he only just manages to sit up before Cas upends the whole damn thing over his head.

There’s silence for a moment. The two of them looking at each other, Dean blinking soapy water out of his eyes, Cas smirking a little. Both of them absolutely drenched.

Dean leans forward and shakes his head, doglike, splattering Cas with foam and dirty water, and starts to laugh when Cas practically _squeals_ , whining, “ _Dean_ ,” and then Cas flops on top of him and wrestles him to the ground. They scuffle together, Dean trying to get Cas’ slippery arms pinned down, Cas wrapping his legs around Dean’s in an attempt to get him to lose his balance, laughter spilling out of them like water. Dean braces one leg back against the Continental’s wheel and pushes forward with a kick, manages to reverse their positions so he has Cas pinned beneath him.

“Don’t,” Cas gasps as Dean skitters his fingers along his side, making him wheeze in laughter, “I should never—you’re never washing my car _ever again_.”

Dean tucks his face into the junction where shoulder meets neck, laughs against the slick skin there. “What,” he teases, “my car-washing skills not good enough for you?”

“Not in the slightest bit,” Cas grumbles, and then he yelps out a breathless laugh as Dean slips a hand under his sopping-wet shirt and wriggles his fingers against Cas’ ribs. “Dean— _Dean_ , stop, please—”

Dean pouts against Cas’ neck but obligingly pulls his hand away. Kisses the hollow of Cas’ throat in apology, feels the rapid beating of his heart against his lips. Cas breathes out an exhausted sigh and loops his arms around Dean’s waist, presses his cheek to the top of Dean’s head. They lie there for perhaps a minute, catching their breath. Then:

“This is the _last_ time I ask you for a favor,” Cas says. And then he squishes a still-wet sponge onto the top of Dean’s head, and laughs and laughs and laughs, until Dean gets a hold of the hose and sprays him in the face.

They never actually get around to washing Cas’ car.


End file.
